The Past, the Present, and the Unseen Future
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: He was a soldier. Soldiers didn't cry. Except for, perhaps, on Remembrance Day.


**The Past, the Present, and the Unseen Future**

"I'm going out."

"Fine."

"Won't be back for a bit... Going out to the pub afterwards."

"Afterwards? After what?" Sherlock glanced up, his expression changing as he found John standing in the living room, in full uniform, fumbling with his coat. "Why are you dressed up?"

John looked back at him in disbelief. "It's Remembrance Day. Don't tell me you forgot, you prat!"

Sherlock only looked at John for another moment, taking in everything in its entirety (for he'd never seen John in uniform) before looking back to the microscope.

"You did forget!" John accused. "Jeez, Sherlock..." Sherlock heard John's jacket zip. "Like I said, won't be back for lunch. Fend for yourself if you want to eat." With uncharacteristic sharpness, John turned and strode down the stairs. His footsteps were measured, quick and precise.

Sherlock raised his head again, wondering how much the war really still weighed on John Watson's mind.

* * *

John turned the red poppy over and over in his hands, staring at the small flower. The poppy was the flower of remembrance for all of the lives lost in the war.

John sighed, fumbling to place the red poppy on his uniform. He sank a little lower in the pew and stared absently towards the pulpit.

"Now, we take a moment of silence in honour of those lives lost."

John closed his eyes.

The war was always on his mind. All he had to do was push open the door and he'd be back on the battlefield. Bullets whizzing past, bombs exploding, screaming and crying. The tang of terror was thick in the air, the adrenaline tangible and the panic clear in everyone's eyes. The blood under his hands, fumbling for gauze, setting broken bones, the sickening crack not heard over the dim of the battlefield.

"Thank you."

John reopened his eyes, blinking away the remnants of memories that were best left where they belonged, on the battlefield. He hadn't had nightmares since he'd met Sherlock, give or take one or two, and for that he was glad. He had no desire to witness all the of the pain and suffering again.

That being said, he didn't distance himself from the grief that they were all allowed to feel, especially on this day.

When the service was over, John found himself joining the group on Whitehall, his gaze falling on the Cenotaph. The British Royal Family was gathered to the right of it, waiting. Waiting... Everyone was waiting.

The eleventh hour. The eleventh day. The eleventh month.

Big Ben struck 11:00 a.m.

The King's Troop fired the cannon.

The silence that commenced after the initial shock of the cannon was enough to deafen John.

The sheer fact that London took two minutes to just stop its generalized hustle-bustle was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He was a soldier.

Soldiers did not cry.

Except for, perhaps, on Remembrance Day.

Commencing the two minutes of silence, the buglers of the Royal Marines had just begun to play when a voice next to him spoke.

"It's breathtaking, isn't it?"

John only just concealed his gasp of surprise to find Sherlock standing next to him in the crowd, a poppy in the buttonhole of his coat as though it had been there all day. He took one glance at Sherlock, who wasn't looking at him, before he looked away, watching the buglers stoically, as he focussed on blinking away the tears from his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, leveling his voice to aim for nonchalance.

"The same thing that you're doing here, Doctor Watson."

There was no amount of sarcasm in the detective's voice and John didn't know how to respond. So, he just didn't, and let his mind wrap around the buglers and the trumpeters and the wreaths being laid down at the base of the Cenotaph. The national anthem and the parade of veterans followed as the Royal Delegation headed out.

John replaced his hat when the service had ended, giving a salute to the slab of stone that commemorated the lives lost.

He was aware of Sherlock's eyes on him the entire time.

John sniffed slightly as he turned, striding away from the Cenotaph. Sherlock was in step besides him all the time, never saying a word. When they had paused to wait on traffic, John rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, trying not to be obvious about the whole near-crying thing, when Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"Tissue?" he asked, procuring a tissue from the inside of his coat to offer to John.

John stared at him for a moment before laughing slightly, taking it. "Is it safe?" he murmured, although didn't wait on an answer before wiping his nose.

"Honestly, John. Do you think I carry around soiled tissues?"

"It's questionable," John replied, casting a hesitant smile towards Sherlock. Sherlock gave his custom smirk in reply, turning his gaze back to the traffic.

When they finally returned home, Sherlock slung his coat over the couch, retreating immediately back to the kitchen.

John watched him with a slight smile before turning for the stairs. He paused before stepping onto the landing.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock was already back at his microscope, his eyes glued to whatever heinous experiment he was performing this time.

John took a breath. "Thank you."

Sherlock looked up from the microscope. John met his gaze, somewhat abashedly, trying to distinguish what was in those unreadable eyes of Sherlock's. They were as keen and questioning as usual, although John thought that they looked just a slight bit more warm. He, John reasoned, was probably just imagining it, though.

"Right," Sherlock said, after that moment, looking back to his microscope.

John watched him for a moment longer before smiling faintly, taking the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

* * *

Sherlock paused in his observing of the experiment in front of him, hearing John take the stairs two at a time to his room. He was clearly not upset any longer.

Perhaps that wasn't the correct term, Sherlock reasoned. John was upset; that much had been evident in the tears that had been swimming in John's eyes at the ceremony. But, it wasn't the same kind of upset that John was if Sherlock insulted him or the same type of upset that John had been when he realized that Sherlock had forgotten about Remembrance Day. It was... sadness, not anger.

John still thought of the war, and thinking of the war made him sad.

But, at the same time, John had been smiling, joking with him even, and Sherlock hadn't missed the rush of gratitude that had jumped into John's surprised and tearful eyes when he realized he was standing next to him in the crowd.

Sherlock looked away from the microscope.

Where John was upset for things that had happened in the past, John was also grateful for things that were happening in the present.

And Sherlock had a part in that. He wasn't sure what that part was, really, because he was sure it involved a lot of incomprehensible sentiment, but he played a part in it.

It wasn't a part that he minded playing, to be entirely truthful, he thought, as he looked back to the microscope again.

* * *

**In honour of all lives lost. **

**11/11/11  
Veteran's Day in the US, Remembrance Day in the UK. **

**[Even though it's now the twelfth, I felt like writing this.]**


End file.
